Retribution!: Revisited
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: Everyone's favorite borderline homicidal physicist is back and ready for action. A sequel to the tale 'Retribution'
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Here, let me check and see if I own any rights to Stargate or Stargate Atlantis. Well, what do you know, my imaginary lawyer friend has informed me that no matter how much I may love them, that doesn't constitute ownership. Damn, and here I thought it would. However, he also informs me that Doctor Lydia Winter, in all her nutty, barmey glory _is_ mine...allllll mine. Seems a fair enough trade off to me. ;D

Behold! The triumphant return of everyone's favorite borderline homicidal, quirky original character, Doctor Lydia Winter!

It also marks my return to writing a story without any kind of plot in mind beforehand. The first chapter came to me in a dream (stfu, I _know_ how hokey that sounds) and I had to commit it to paper...so to speak. Regardless of the fact I have no idea where it's going. Yay for flying by the seat of your pants!

Just a tip, you might want to go read 'Retribution!' first before you read this. I'm going to _try_ and make this a self contained story so that it's not _neccessary_ for you to read that one first, but I don't know how that will work out. You know...like I never know how anything else I do will work out.

At least I'm consistent, right? Anyways...enjoy, and if there's anything that you'd like to see happen to our beloved Doc Winter, just let me know and I'll try to toss it in here somewhere.

-------------

I must have the world's worst luck.

Born under a bad star, taken one too many walks under one too many a ladder, opened an umbrella indoors once too often...something like that.

Now under ordinary circumstances, I'm not the least bit superstitious (or _stupidstitious_, as I prefer to say) but in this instance, I can't find any other explanation for my current predicament.

Seriously, how else do you account for the fact that Doctor Kavanaugh is leaving Atlantis on the same trip that _I_ am?

Alright, I could have handled it if we were just going to be on the Daedelus at the same time, it's a big ship and I could've easily avoided him the whole voyage, but he's on the same _Puddle Jumper_ that's taking me _to_ the Daedelus.

Now Puddle Jumpers are pretty roomy, but unless I suddenly develop the ability to render myself invisible, there's no way to avoid the man.

So I'll just be over here reading 'Leauge Of Extrordinary Gentlemen' for the third time, ignoring the fact that he exists.

That's right, I was sent off with some of the most informative textbooks in the known universe, many of which I've never read before, and I'm rereading a comic book instead.

Old habits, my friends, old habits...

See, throughout my elementary school years, I always got distracted from...well, pretty much everything whenever a shiny new comic book was involved in the equation.

Listen to my teacher drone on for an hour about the Spanish-American war or crack open a new issue of Catwoman.

Hmm...decisions, decisions.

Sorry, am I getting nostalgic? I didn't mean to. I guess it's just the fact I'm going home...Atlantis is nice, but it sure ain't Earth. I can't _wait_ to get home.

Anyways, I'm about to get to my favorite part in LOEG (right when the Invisible Man is dancing about in a Policeman's uniform, shouting 'Oh good heavens, he's killed a constable!'...it just _looks_ funny...a constable's outfit dancing all on it's own) when Kavanaugh suddenly decides to strike up a conversation with me.

Note to self: Look into developing personal cloaking devices as a means of avoiding people I don't want to talk to. Could make a fortune from the High School Reunion circuit alone.

If I haven't mentioned this before, Doctor Kavanaugh is a _dreadful _conversationalist. Hasn't the sense God gave a rock when it comes to things like common courtesy, or polite conversation.

This time around, he's decided to enlighten me on the finer points of insulting Doctor Weir's leadership skills.

Look, I've got no love for the woman, as often as she's scolded me or stuck me with McKay (though that doesn't bother me quite so much anymore) but I don't go around engaging in Weir-bashing behind her back. I respect her even if I don't neccessarily _like_ her.

And my dislike of her just might come from my inborn dislike of authority figures in general.

"And you know what _else_ she's done, Lydia?"

Oh, but were I a less moral person I would toss him out the airlock and watch the vacuum of space rip his eyes from his skull.

Wow...I've seen Total Recall one too many times...I know that would never happen and yet, I have this odd desire to see such an event occur if Kavanaugh is the victim.

Gruesome.

"Hey, Lydia?"

Wince. "_What_?"

"When we get back to Earth, back at the SGC, you think you wanna grab lunch sometime?"

Ugh...

I'm starting to miss McKay already.

---------

A/N:La la la...I hate Kavanaugh. Does it show? Somehow, I highly doubt Kavanaugh would ever dare to ask anyone out, but there's this part of me that thinks he just might be sleezy enough to do it. God have I missed writing for Lydia. She's just the breath of fresh air I need whilst Ihave writers block for When Plot Bunnies Attack. I should be updating things much more regularly, since I have internet again 'till mid-December. That ALSO means I'll be able to reply to all my reviews from now on! WOO! Thanks so much for sticking by me you guys, and like I said before, if there's anything you want to see in this fic (or any others, for that matter) just let me know. I'll do my best to work it in there!

As usual, Lydia is up for grabs. You want her in your story? Well, use her. Just try to keep her in character and let me know if you use her so that I can read the story she's made an appearance in.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm still Elizabeth Bartlett's Yoda. This makes me insanely happy and gives me renewed purpose. -dives back into fiction-

----------

The Daedelus, just in case you didn't know, is an interesting ship. Even the name is interesting. Daedelus: skilled craftsman, inventor and all around good, smart guy until he tried to off his ingenious nephew out of professional envy.

And here my mother thought all those years I spent reading myths wouldn't amount to anything. Hah. I know who our spaceship is named after and I bet you half the crew doesn't.

Come to think of it, if it was my ship I wouldn't have named it Daedelus. After all, his history is less than cheerful.

Well, it could have been worse...they could have called it the Xerxes. Now _there_ is a man with issues.

For starters, it's flippin' _huge_. It looks big and lumbering from the outside, but the inside is even more impressive. The first time I saw it, I'll admit that I wasn't exactly impressed. I mean, the Enterprise she's not. There's no pretty colored control panels, no Captain's chair with funky little light up buttons on it, but it does have it's own charm to a certain extent.

At least everything's not beige like it was on the old Galactica. I _loathe_ beige. Makes me want to claw my eyeballs out. As someone who grew up with the Technicolor worlds that were Star Trek and Logan's Run, drab colors just make me feel ill. I remember the first time I watched Space Nineteen Ninety Nine. I spent the whole time clutching my face wailing "It's beige! It's all beeeeeige!"

The other thing about the Daedelus that's interesting that not everyone knows (or at least no one says anything about it) is that her Captain bears an eerie resemblance to a certain Assistant Director of the FBI on a certain sci-fi television show.

I've met Colonel Caldwell a handful of times, mostly just a nod while passing him in a corridor, and I gotta admit, no matter what I do, it still weirds me out.

I have to keep pushing down this desperate need to call him 'Skinner', mostly because I think he'd hurt me for it. I bet he gets that all the time.

The other weird thing is being around Hermiod. As a teenager I had a plushie that looked _exactly_ like he does. Needless to say, the possibility of working with such a creature never entered into my mind. Sure, I believed in aliens, in the obscure sense, but I never thought I'd be working with one.

Abducted by one, possibly, but not _working_ with one.

Which is what I'm doing right now...well, sorta. I'm running simulations for the ZPM regeneration project and he's dealing with the latest crisis that has befallen the Daedelus.

There's been a problem with one of the climate control regulation systems, and as such, most of the ship is experiencing uncomfortable cold. Like thirty degrees or so. I'm not really that bothered by it (growing up like, right on the lakefront in Wisconsin makes you pretty impervious to cold), but I feel for Hermiod. I offered him my lab coat, but he turned it down.

Why is it the Asgard don't wear clothes again?

Anyways, I've been spending an unprecedented amount of time hanging around Hermiod. Now, you might think it's because I need somewhere to work on my simulations. That, I admit, is only part of the reason. This is the one place where Kavanaugh isn't welcome (which is an issue I have to ask Hermiod about at a later date) so it's the one place where I can be sure I won't run into him.

It's not that he's stalking me, it's just he keeps popping up where ever I am and I have to excuse myself from whatever I'm doing so I can make a quick escape. He hasn't actually said much to me, but whenever I'm in the same room with him and he _does_ say something to me I have to fight the urge to crawl out of my skin and run for he hills. As such, I'm avoiding him as much as humanly possible, I'd really like to limit my contact with the little weasel as much as I can.

So, here I am, doing what I do best. Wasting time by pecking away at a keyboard. I'm seriously tired of looking at these equations. So much so that I'm thinking about stealthily slipping my old Diablo CD Rom into the drive and working my Rogue up to level thirty.

But I think Hermiod is getting annoyed with me. I mean, I _am_ kinda cutting into his alone time. Besides, I can just as easily waste time in my quarters on my laptop as I can here. Maybe I'll punch out a letter to the girls back on Atlantis or...uh...something.

---------

A/N:I just realized how little there is to do on the Daedelus. Therefore, there's very little to write about. Plus, since I only have a very vague idea of where I'm going with this and only a couple of major events worked out. If there's something you want to see happen, you better tell me. Otherwise this story is going to be kinda sparse on the events throughout.

Now for the part where I admit to the things which Lydia and I have in common. Mythology and theology have always been secret passions of mine. I thrive in cold weather (in fact, it's currently thirty eight degrees and my window is wide open), and I also can't stand beige in large quantities on TV.


	3. Chapter 3

Alright, there is _nothing_ to do on the Daedelus.

I've spent the past several weeks bored out of my mind.

I'm going stir crazy. That's what it is. Not being able to step outside for a breath of air is killing me.

Not that there's any air out there, but that's not the point. I'm starting to think my claustrophobia (which I _thought_ I was over) is reasserting itself.

There's also always someone breathing down my neck and not in that comforting 'What the hell are you doing, Winter? That equation won't work!' way that I'm used to.

Daedelus may _look_ big, but when you get inside it, it's pretty cramped. Especially when you're sharing it with God knows how many people (over a hundred, I believe it is), several of whom don't seem to grasp this concept called 'personal space'.

I almost had an anxiety attack in one of the turbo lifts (I _can't_ bring myself to call them elevators...it's just not right to call a lift in a spaceship an 'elevator'. I blame Star Trek for this particular neuroses). I was about a minute away from indicating a little area around myself with my hands while shouting 'This is the box! Do not step inside _my_ box!'

But since that would have made everyone nearby think I was nuts, resulting in me spending the rest of the journey to Earth in either the brig or the infirmary, I restrained myself.

I can't _wait_ to get home.

My own apartment. My own small, clean, coworker free, geek friendly abode where I know exactly where everything belongs and _everything_ is in it's proper place.

Which brings me to my next point, do you have any idea how disorganized this place can get under pressure? We were under attack from one of these little...actually, I have no idea what race, but whoever they were, they had the 'Tea Cup Poodle who thinks he can take on a German Shepard ' attitude. One of those little ships with a cocky pilot who thought they could take us on.

They were scrappy, but that didn't keep 'em from blowin' up in the end anyway.

It was like the fourth of July, except more destruction-y.

I think that's the most exciting thing that's happened since I got onboard the Daedelus...everything else has been eat, work, and sleep.

That was alright for the first week, but it's getting to be tedious. At least on Atlantis there was always something interesting going on...even if it was only me trying to murder/prank/bicker with McKay.

Ugh. Don't tell me I'm starting to miss him...

Actually...wow, that's depressing. He's one of the few things that made life on Atlantis really interesting. I mean, yeah, we were in another galaxy, but it's actually a lot like working in Cheyenne Mountain. Constantly under attack from something, having to think on our toes _all_ the time...

Aside from the possibility that at any moment we might be stranded if the Gate stops working or the Daedelus is destroyed, it's _just_ like Cheyenne Mountain.

Which, after working _there_ for close to a year, isn't all that exciting.

Ok, either I'm really, _really_ jaded, or really, really bored.

I'm going to go with bored.

You know, I actually considered breaking out those text books that Crysta sent me off with?

But after looking at the one on molecular biology, I figured out that I'm not quite _that_ desperate.

_Yet_.

Well, at least I've only got a couple of days left before I _finally_ get to set foot on my native soil again. Two days away from Earth and I'm-

Crap. A red alert.

And I'm being summoned via headset.

Maybe things on the Daedelus aren't quite so dull after all.

--

A/N: Yes, I _am_ aware of just how long this update took. Honestly, I was putting it off because I had no idea what to do with the story on the Daedelus. Seriously, if you think about it, there's _nothing_ to do on it.


	4. Chapter 4

Now before I go any further, let me assure you that:

A.) I have never had to handle a gun in a combat situation before. Playing Rainbow Six and House Of The Dead at the arcade don't count.

B.) I didn't _mean_ to shoot Kavanagh.

C.) HONEST!

Not that anyone believes me.

Is it _my_ fault he **jumped** in front of the bullet? I was _trying_ to shoot that...that...that whatever it was.

Looked like Jabba The Hut, but...smaller.

And slimier.

_Ewwww_.

Anyways. The Daedelus was boarded by some of the...well, they didn't leave us a name, so I'm just going to call them 'Space Slugs', and a fire fight ensued.

Kavanagh got in the way.

I shot him.

In the leg.

He's in the infirmary and I'm in the brig.

Which is, needless to say, a perfect end to _the_ perfect day.

They're reviewing the security camera footage now, to make sure that in my overzealous hatred for our _dear_ Doctor Kavanagh, I didn't use the Slug attack as an excuse to try and kill him.

Now don't get me wrong...I've thought about it...but if I'm going to go to all the trouble of killing someone, I'm going to do it carefully, methodically, and not leave any trace behind that _I_ did it. Maybe even try and frame someone _else_ for it.

But shooting him?

Too common. Too pedestrian. Too...not my style.

Not that it matters right now, anyways. I'm still looking at a kick in the pants when I get back to Earth for my carelessness (if they find that it _was_ an accident...which they will!) and who knows how much training they're going to put me through so something like this doesn't happen again.

So I'm looking at some discipline, some punishment and a nice, _long_ chat with someone about my anger issues.

Not that they even enter into the equation...I wasn't angry at him (well, not _really_) but with my track record of trying to murder off McKay...

Well, lets just say there'll be some psychological evaluations in my not too distant future.

On the plus side...the chances of Kavanagh asking me out have dropped **drastically**.


	5. Chapter 5

Lydia is feeling introspective today for some reason. She's also drawing on my own past experiences because...well, it helps to explain some of her stand-off-ish-ness about a great many things. Everything you're about to read in Lydia's past is true...it's something I had to deal with and this seemed like the right way to do it (writing is therapy for me in a lot of ways so bear with me here).

-

Two hundred thirty one, two hundred thirty two, two hundred thirty three, two hundred thirty four.

Two hundred thirty four ceiling tiles in the brig.

That's the third time I've counted them...why I keep doing it, I don't know. It's not like an extra ceiling tile is going to pop into existence the next time around.

But then again, it's not like there's anything _better_ to do...so I'm just lying here on the floor, staring at the ceiling counting the tiles.

I have no idea how long I've been in here...I keep catching myself glancing at my watch and then remembering 'Oh right, DEAD BATTERY'. First thing I do when I get back to Earth is replace the battery in my Batman watch and then buy three back-ups, just in case it dies again. I _hate_ not knowing what time it is.

Sigh.

How long does it take to review surveillance tapes anyways, huh? It feels like I've been in here for an eternity just staring at nothing.

Sit up suddenly.

Oh God, I'm dead, aren't I? I didn't survive the firefight with the slug things and this is purgatory.

Check pulse.

Crap. Can't find pulse.

Oh wait...there it is.

Thump, thump, thumpity, thump.

Apparently, I am indeed still alive.

Well...it was a good theory while it lasted.

Dunno why I even considered purgatory as an option...it's not like I'm Catholic or anything.

God, I'm _bored_. I _hate_ being forced to sit still and be quiet.

Mostly because it's times like these when I get all introspective and start _thinking_ and I don't _like_ thinking. Not the kind of thinking I do when I'm bored out of my skull, at least.

I get all deep and philosophical and start pondering the meaning of life.

And poetic. I get poetic too.

Good thing I'm alone...it's times like these that tend to ruin my reputation as 'brash, boisterous and loud mouthed' and I don't like that. I'm not the kind of person who shows off her goopy, optimistic center. People with goopy, optimistic centers get taken advantage of more often, I've noticed, so that side of me stays really, deeply buried.

Flop back on the floor again to start counting the ceiling tiles once more.

One, two, three, four, five...

You know, I've never been able to decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. The keeping up of walls, I mean. Got hurt a lot as a kid so the walls just shot up of their own accord. Never really noticed they were forming until they were firmly in place already.

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen...

It's easier, I guess. Being all bluster and blow hard and sarcastic...small and mousy doesn't do it for me anymore. Used to be small and mousy...

Twenty two, twenty three, twenty four...

Used to trust people...

Twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven...

Used to be taken advantage of a lot.

Twenty nine, thirty, thirty one...

Not so much anymore.

Thirty two, thirty three...

You know, it's my opinion that everyone gets a few moments of absolute clarity in their lives. Just...total, absolute clarity. All the pieces fit into place all of the sudden.

Thirty five, thirty six, thirty seven...

I'm not talking about like 'I've just smoked a joint and the universe makes sense' clarity, but that clarity that comes with living with a situation for a long time and then something about it clicks and you realize what's wrong with your life where you didn't see anything wrong with it before.

Forty, forty one, forty two...

I've had a couple of moments like that...and they've all had consequences. Like, life altering, personality changing, philosophy shifting consequences. The kind that send the universe into upheaval and give you new perspectives that you'd never even _considered_ before.

Forty eight, forty nine, fifty...

The kind that changed 'Mousy, kind, sweet Lydia' into 'Sarcastic, bitter and defensive Winter'. The kind that swapped out my old philosophy of 'Love thy neighbor' to 'Do unto others before they do unto you'.

Fifty three, fifty four, fifty five...

Which believe you me is pretty sad when I think about it. I'm jaded and I know it...I'm too young to be this fucked in the head and mistrustful.

Fifty nine, sixty...

I kinda wonder if that's why I've got such problems with McKay. He's just as much bluster as I am and I suspect it's for the same reasons...goopy, easily injured centers are _not_ the kinds of things we're comfortable with showing the rest of the world.

Sixty five, sixty six, sixty seven...

That's why we can't stand each other. That's why we clash so strongly and every single damn conversation we have is a battle of wills.

Seventy one, seventy two, seventy three...

We _are_ each other...and forcing yourself to look at a mirror in the form of another human being who so blatantly shows your own faults is uncomfortable.

Seventy seven, seventy eight, seventy nine...

And raw.

Eighty one, eighty two, eighty three...

God dammit...don't tell me I'm finding myself..._identifying_ with McKay.

Eighty eight, eighty nine, ninety...

Anger. Defense mechanisms. Trust issues. The 'don't touch me and don't get too close' thing...which seems to have carried over from childhood into adulthood.

Ninety six, ninety seven, ninety eight...

See, this is why I hate being left to think without any outside distractions. The self examination it brings on. I don't _like_ having to look at myself too closely because that leads to 'what ifs' and doubts about what kind of person I am and worst of all, regrets.

One hundred three, one hundred four, one hundred five...

I don't believe in regrets. I've always told myself that I would never _have_ regrets.

One hundred nine, one hundred ten, one hundred eleven...

My friend Brian once asked me 'If you could change one event in your past, what would it be?'

One hundred thirteen, one hundred fourteen, one hundred fifteen...

My answer, no matter how many times he asked it, was always the same. 'Nothing.'

One hundred twenty, one hundred twenty one, one hundred twenty two...

I'm not sure if I was lying to him or not. If I changed anything that had happened in my past; _anything_ at all, I wouldn't be the same person that I am now. If that would have been better or worse, I'm not sure. Maybe I wouldn't be quite so skeptical when it comes to relationships or maybe I wouldn't be so cynical when it comes to this thing I keep hearing about called 'trust', but I'm not going to spend the rest of my life looking back and wondering.

One hundred forty four, one hundred forty five, one hundred forty six...

I only get one life and I'm not going to waste it looking back at things that I can't change and saying 'I should have', 'I could have', 'It would have been better if' and 'I regret'.

One hundred fifty eight, one hundred fifty nine, one hundred sixty...

And what's more, most of those events that I 'regret' are things I had no control over, 'cause I was a kid and absolutely powerless to make it better. Not that it _matters_ of course...that doesn't change all that stupid guilt that doesn't belong there but that I feel anyways. Whose bright idea was guilt anyway? It's got to be the dumbest emotion of all.

One hundred sixty nine, one hundred seventy, one hundred seventy one...

I mean, sure, guilt is all well and good when it's _deserved_; like if you kill somebody and you're remorseful for what you've done; but Christ, I shouldn't feel guilty for things that _other_ people did. 'Oh, they were just boys being boys, you didn't have to bring charges up against them' or my personal favorite 'It's not like it was _rape_, all they did was _touch_ you'.

One hundred seventy six, one hundred seventy seven, one hundred seventy eight...

Sodding school system. It happens to me and no one does a damn thing; get the police involved, the local sexual assault coalition; but since it's my word against theirs, there's four of them and one of me and all of them are circling the wagons and telling the exact same story, then of _course_ I made it all up just to get attention. Of course, the best part of all was when my principal suggested that I hadn't reported it right away because I _liked_ it.

One hundred eighty, one hundred eighty one, one hundred eighty two...

That's right, a terrified ten year old kept the sexual harassment claims to herself not because one of the 'boys' who assaulted her slammed her head into a school bus window, but because she secretly _enjoyed_ the 'attention'.

One hundred eighty five, one hundred eighty six, one hundred eighty seven...

I thought I was over this. God damn it. This is why I hate being left alone with my thoughts. I hate it, I hate it, I **hate** it. I don't like my past, I don't like thinking about my past and I sure as hell don't like examining my life. It makes me feel smaller than I am...weaker...more prone to emotional injury.

One hundred ninety, one hundred ninety one, one hundred ninety two...

Introspection turns me into that God damned pathetic damaged little girl I used to be and I am **not** going to do this to myself anymore.

One hundred ninety nine, two hundred, two hundred one...

That kinda makes me smile, you know? That I'm not _her_ anymore? I mean...I'm not so small and mousy and easy to walk on.

Two hundred two, two hundred three, two hundred four...

I think if it wasn't for all that, I would still _be_ a doormat. We are the sum of our experiences, my grandpa used to say, and I guess that's why I wouldn't change any of them, regardless of how traumatic they were. I'd be a radically different person and I'm actually...

Huh...I'm actually pretty happy with who I am. Faults and all.

Two hundred nine, two hundred ten, two hundred eleven...

I'm a scientist now, all bluster and daring and smart-ass-ness. Verbal prowess that leaves McKay dumbstruck on a regular basis and with a glare that can make a grown man take a step back.

Two hundred fifteen, two hundred sixteen, two hundred seventeen...

God and I'm actually smiling now. The guys who're watching me on closed circuit surveillance must think I've taken leave of my senses. Verge of tears one minute, grinning like the Joker the next.

Two hundred twenty, two hundred twenty one, two hundred twenty two...

I guess I've just realized how...well, I don't know how to describe it, exactly. Not tough, exactly, but...resilient, I suppose. I mean, I'm in the brig for shooting a comrade and here I am having an epiphany about myself and doing soul searching and whatnot. If that's not resilient, I don't know what is.

Unless that makes me barmy, which is a distinct possibility.

Still got a goopy center though...and a soft spot for certain people and you know...fluffy things. Cats especially...hamsters too. Read poetry, though I'm _loathe_ to admit it to anyone...philosophical despite my inherent dislike of philosophy.

Two hundred twenty nine, two hundred thirty, two hundred thirty one...

You know, I feel a kind of...camaraderie with McKay all of the sudden. Like I didn't realize the parallels between us until just now. Which is odd, cause they're kinda..._blatantly obvious_.

Wonder what he'd do if the next time I saw him I gave him a hug?

Snicker. I _know_ what he'd do. He'd drop over from a heart attack, that's what he'd do. Dead before he hit the ground.

Two hundred thirty two, two hundred thirty three, two hundred thirty four...

Yup. Still two hundred and thirty four. Same as it was the last four times.

But you know, maybe this introspection thing isn't so bad after all.


	6. Chapter 6

I've officially run out of things to be introspective about. I'm pondering the concept of perpetual light right now just to keep my mind occupied.

Interesting theory, that.

The notion of a single beam of light bouncing off a series of mirrors that reflect and continue to feed off each other, thusly keeping the light going _forever_ is absolutely, completely _fascinating._

I want to try it.

I need mirrors...and a pocket flashlight...and my hot glue gun...

Wow...I _am_ bored.

Sit up so fast my back creaks in protest.

The theory of perpetual light. The ZPM regeneration project.

Why do I feel like I could connect the two somehow if I could just get my brain to function properly?

There's a connection somewhere...there's gotta be. To keep the power in a ZPM going forever rather than letting it be depleted through the principles presented in the theory of perpetual light...

No, it wouldn't work. It..._couldn't_ work. A ZPM is far too complex a thing...perpetual light is child's play in comparison. It'd be like trying to build an atom bomb with an erector set. A complex concept in use with such a simple one...it couldn't _possibly_ work.

Uh...right?

But..._what if_?

Just...what if there's a connection between the two that could be used to our advantage? A theorem...something that would allow a ZPM to keep regenerating itself...feeding off itself...

Something in my mind is trying to click but I can't _make_ it do so...it's subconscious or something...there's some idea that I've forgotten that's relevant here. Like having a word on the tip of your tongue but being unable to _say_ it.

I need books. I need to research and make notes.

NOW.

Now before I manage to lose this spark of inspiration!

Scramble up off the floor.

Stand in front of security camera.

Jump up and down.

"Hey! HEEEEY! YOU GUYS!"

Wave arms at the camera desperately.

"I know you're watching me! Let me out of here! I've got a brilliant idea and nothing to write on!"


	7. Chapter 7

"It won't work."

Thank you, Mister Obvious...

"Well of course it won't work, you moron! I'm not saying use _perpetual light_ to power the ZPM, I'm saying apply the _principles_ in the theory to make the ZPM keep regenerating itself! I'm thinking in abstracts here!"

Daedelus beamed us down to Earth over an hour ago and I've spent the entire time in the briefing room arguing at the top of my lungs with Kavanagh.

He is, if at all possible, _more_ irritating when he's incapacitated.

Which is one hell of a feat considering how absolutely unbearable he is _usually_.

God, I'm starting to wish _had_ killed him.

"Abstracts have no place in physics! If Rodney McKay could hear you now--"

"McKay would at least hear me out!"

…I did **not** just say that.

Apparently, we're supposed to wait around for Samantha Carter to show up before we get down to brass tacks and I get something _done_ around here.

"Only an idiot would try and apply the principles of Perpetual _Light_ to a ZPM. Light can't exist inside one!"

Ok…I am _this_ close to jumping on him, wheelchair or not, and throttling him.

I'll settle for verbal threats for the moment.

"Tell me something, do you _want_ me to shoot you again?"

"I knew it! I KNEW you did it on purpose! I knew you were trying to kill me!"

"If I had been _trying_ to kill you, you'd be dead and there'd be no evidence! I'd have tossed you out an airlock and said 'Good riddance' you disgusting toady!"

I think I heard someone snicker.

Spin on my heel.

Brunette. Female. SGC uniform.

I don't remember her being on any SG team when I was working in Cheyenne Mountain before my transfer to Atlantis.

Oh. Wait.

Recognition hits me like a brick to the head.

I might not keep up with all that many reports from Earth, or listen to all that much gossip in Pegasus, but I seem to recall reading a few…interesting reports about someone matching her description…

Vala. Vala…Mandarin. Or…something like that. Started with an M, I'm _pretty_ sure.

And _her_ reputation is probably more widespread than _mine_ is.

Just what I need.

---

A/N: I think I just wrote myself into a corner...aw _crap_. What do I do now?

OH! And before I forget (you know..._again_) both Reyclou and SpaceMonkey0941 have written Lydia Winter stories! Yays! Be sure to check them out! I ORDER YOU!


	8. Chapter 8

Maldoran.

That's her name. Vala Maldoran.

And I'll be damned if I've figured out what it is about her that's so...irritatingly endearing.

She just annoys and annoys and annoys and crosses lines and disregards boundaries...and still comes off looking good and smelling like a rose.

I should ask her how she does that. It's a skill I could use in the future.

Bound to be better than getting busted _every single time_ I do something 'wrong'.

Of course, the fact she keeps getting away with everything might have something to do with the fact she seems to be...'in' with Doctor Jackson.

I mean...I don't see a ring or anything, but the way she's always making such goo-goo eyes at him behind his back, it's pretty obvious...

Regardless of the front he puts on of 'I don't like you, go away', he digs her.

And they bicker just like an old married couple, I tell you...it's almost like me and--

No. I did not just think of McKay. Absolutely not.

I need to take my brain out and scrub it with a brill-o pad now.

But I digress...I'm currently in my 'debriefing' or as I'd like to call it my 'dressing down'.

I keep getting the 'Yes you're brilliant' and 'Yes we want you on Atlantis' thing with a strong reprimand of 'You must learn to control your temper' every few minutes.

On the bright side, if I hadn't suggested my idea of mixing the concept of perpetual light with the ZPM regeneration project, they probably would have chucked me out of here before you can say 'Space Slug'.

As it is, however, I've managed to somewhat redeem myself with my bright idea, so all I've got to endure is a psychological evaluation and then they're shipping me to Area Fifty One (I think I made a little squeaky happy noise when General Landry told me that...totally involuntary, I swear) to work alongside a team of scientists who've been experimenting with a depleted ZPM. After _that_, they want me back at the SGC until I'm due to return to Atlantis.

Which is...roughly four and a half months from now.

I can stay out of trouble for that long.

Oomp...and I'm going to be late for my appointment with the on-base shrink if I don't hussle.

If I can cut the mustard with _her_, I'm off on the first flight to New Mexico.

I can handle one psychiatrist appointment without screwing anything up beyond redemption, right?

Right?

Yeah, I don't believe me either.


	9. Chapter 9

I passed my psych evaluation.

Barely.

So now I'm on my way to Area Fifty One.

Part of me is excited beyond belief, the other part of me is insisting this was a bad idea.

Me and airplanes aren't very friendly with one another, you see…but I couldn't convince anyone to just _beam_ me to New Mexico, so here I sit on a 747, having a minor panic attack.

There are three rules to traveling by air.

Three rules and I've managed to break every single one.

First off, never watch a Twilight Zone marathon before leaving home.

Why?

Because I can guarantee that by some cruel twist of fate the last episode you get to see will be 'Terror At Twenty Thousand Feet'.

That's the one with Captain Kirk flipping out, trying to shoot something he sees out on the wing of the plane…

(Just a tip, shouting 'There's something on the wing of the plane!' is only funny to the stewardess the first three times.)

Then, inexplicably, God will hate you to the point that he'll make it impossible for you to avoid breaking rule number two.

Second rule, do **not** under any circumstances, no matter what the stewardess tells you, take a window seat. Window seat bad, aisle seat good.

Never take a window seat.

Ever.

If you have to bribe the surly linebacker sized guy in a maroon and pink striped golf shirt who wants your bag of complimentary peanuts to give up his aisle seat, do it.

And finally, don't sit by the guy who looks eerily like William Shatner. It's just pushing your luck.

Or maybe he doesn't _really_ look all that much like William Shatner and I'm just projecting on the poor guy because I'm freaking out.

I hate airplanes. I don't like space travel, I'm not particularly fond of gate travel, but I'd rather do both of _those_ than be on an airplane.

Thankfully, the aforementioned humorless stewardess has been bringing me strong liquor roughly every twenty minutes, thusly I'm about half a shot of scotch away from not caring if we go down in a blazing fireball.

By my calculations, we're only going to be in the air another fifteen minutes or so anyways--not that I trust my math skills when I'm this fried--so I'll be back on solid ground pretty soon.

Provided I possess the ability to stand up by the time we land, of course.

At this point, I have my doubts.

Hiccup.

What a way to make a first impression at Area Fifty One, huh? I climb off the plane to be greeted by my security escort and I'm so sloshed I can't see straight.

Hiccup.

Dammit. I just know this is going to go on my permanent record.

"Specializes in physics, has homicidal tendencies and can't hold her scotch."

Oh, _more_ alcohol…joy. Can't this woman see I'm already completely blasted?

Push glass away.

I'd like to land with my speech center intact at least…last thing I need is to give my salutations to the head of the science division at Area Fifty One speaking fluent drunkenese.

Hiccup.

This is bound to get interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

Wow…ok…the floor shouldn't have come up to greet me so quickly when I stepped off that set of stairs.

Of course, if I were sober, the fact that the concept of gravity had something to do with that swift descent _might_ occur to me.

But since I'm not sober…

Hiccup.

Ouch. Dammit.

"Hey, hands off, pal!"

Whack.

Oops.

That's my security escort.

And I punched him in the breadbasket.

_Way to make a first impression, Lydia._

"Doctor Winter?"

I'm pretty sure that's me…

Not _positive_, but after all, only fools are positive…

_Are you sure?_

I'm positive.

Aaaand now I'm giggling for no reason.

Other than the fact I made a joke that only the little drunken voices in my head would find funny…

"Doctor Winter!"

"Yessir, tha's me."

Am I slurring? I think I'm slurring.

I didn't think I was _that_ far gone.

"That was quite a tumble you took."

Tumble? I took a--

Oooh…that's why the ground said hi so abruptly.

I fell down the stairs.

_Nice._

"Doctor Winter? Are you alright?"

"Oh yeeeeah!"

Whoops, volume control is out of whack. Better bring it down a little bit.

"I mean...I'm fine. I uh…I--"

"Just come with us, if you would please?"

Shrug. Sure thing. Why not?

Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup.

"How much did you have to drink, Doctor Winter?"

Last shreds of rationally thinking brain go into overdrive. "Uhhh…a finger of scotch every twenty minutes or so. I think. How long was I in the air?"

"Three hours."

So that's…um…

Come on, I know this…simple math, I can do this with my eyes closed.

Whoops, bad idea.

Keep your eyes _open_ Lydia, it's useful when it comes to seeing where you're going.

Ok, a finger of scotch every twenty minutes for three hours.

That's nine fingers of very strong scotch…

I'd peg it at…ninety proof at least…

And I'm not dead from alcohol poisoning _why_?

I certainly don't have the constitution for _that_ kind of heavy drinking…

I should know; I'm a gnome, not a dwarf…I can't hold my liquor.

And now I'm giggling again.

Only _my_ mind would check my drunken state against my Dungeons and Dragons stats.

"Doctor Winter, are you _sure_ you're alright?"

Giggle.

"I'll take that as a no, then…"

Giggle, giggle, giggle.

It just occurred to me…

Crysta's going to get a kick out of this when I tell her…

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

And fallen and fallen and fallen.

And landed on her face three times in ten minutes.

She'll _never_ let this go.

Thud.

Ok, landed on her face _four_ times in ten minutes.

But you know what? I'm fine...I'm _fine_…I've got it together, dude, I'm ok.

If I could just find my God damn feet…


	11. Chapter 11

"Welcome to Area Fifty One, Doctor Winter."

Oh, my _head_.

Mumble unintelligibly in response to the warm greeting from the head of the science staff.

I _think_ it sounded something like 'Thank you' but with this pounding headache, I can't be sure.

Let me tell you, the headaches I used to get on Atlantis pale in comparison to this whopper I've got going on inside my skull right at the moment.

I am never drinking Scotch ever again. Ever, ever, ever.

Though it might be from the constant falling...or maybe the fact that my security escort from the airport insisted on taking me to a coffee shop and pouring large amounts of espresso down my throat.

Caffeine and alcohol don't play well with each other. Not in _my_ body, at least.

"You'll be over in the physics block where we're currently working with a depleted Zero Point Module."

Another mumble in the affirmative.

"Your head of staff is one--Doctor Bill Lee--we've got him on loan from the SGC for the next couple of weeks just for this project."

God I wish this guy would just shut _up_...

"Uh, this is your lab."

Blink.

This...this is _my_ lab?

I have a lab? My _own_ lab?

Sans McKay's interference?

Did I die in a plane crash on the way here? This is too good to be true.

"These are your research team; the best and the brightest we've got in this division...all of them at your disposal."

Pinch self.

Nope. Not dead or dreaming.

"Doctor Winter?"

Huh? Oh. Gaping in awe of my new _huge_ laboratory isn't something that's keeping up my appearance of being a professional, is it?

Snap gaping jaw shut. Slip into disaffected cool mode. Can't show how thrilled I am to have facilities like these at my fingertips...

"It's...adequate."

Oh God, I sound like McKay when I say it like that.

"You'll be reporting to Doctor Lee on a regular basis, of course...and every so often a data burst to Atlantis with your findings--so that Doctor McKay will have the opportunity to look them over--will be sent--"

Tune out the rest of his speech.

Damn it.

Even on Earth I'm still reporting to _McKay._

There went the last shreds of the theory I've died and gone to heaven...anywhere with McKay involved in the equation is far closer to _hell_ in my opinion.

"Doctor?"

"Huh? Oh. Yes. Well...McKay is the head of science on Atlantis...I expected I'd be reporting to him."

My escort looks somewhat wary. I wonder why.

"I...ahem...I had heard that the two of you were less than...tolerant with each other. I'm surprised you're taking this as well as you are."

I can't hide the smirk.

Smiling makes my head hurt too much though.

Wince.

"Well, I might not have much personal respect for the good Doctor...but professionally I can give him his...due."

Now I'm wincing for an entirely different reason. I don't want to admit that I have _any_ respect for McKay--personal _nor_ professional--but he _is_ a genius. I've tried denying that fact to myself as often as possible, but I've read most of the thesis's he's worked on.

He's a jackass, but he's a brilliant jackass.

Not that I'll ever admit that to _him_.

Well, maybe the 'Jackass' part. But not the brilliant bit. No.

"Well, Doctor, I'll show you to your quarters if you'd like?"

I have on base quarters?

At Area Fifty One?

Cool!

"Thank you, but I'm sure I can find my way...if you just point me in the right direction?"

"Downstairs...six floors...you're in room thirteen. I'll show you to the elevator."

"Thanks."

I have on base quarters as Area Fifty One.

How freakin' cool is _that_?

Never mind that it's room thirteen...

It's not like I'm stupidstitious.

What's the worst that could happen?


	12. Chapter 12

I don't like elevators.

I don't like elevators, I don't like elevators, I don't like elevators!

No, I'm not having a panic attack because I'm trapped inside one, why do you ask?

"Are you okay, Doc? You're turning a little blue."

It'd be easier to die of asphixiation in peace if I weren't stuck here with General O'Neill of all people.

Why is he at Area Fifty One anyway?

More importantly, why is he at Area Fifty One and _why_ is he in my elevator using up my precious oxygen?

"Look, Doctor...what'd you say your name was again?"

Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze.

What, he can't read the big as life nametag on my lab coat?

Oh God, I get snarky when I'm staring death in the face, don't I?

Get ahold of yourself, Lydia. It's just an elevator.

A tiny, cramped, metal death trap suspended from a _wire_ thirty floors up that could snap and break at any moment...

Yeah, just an elevator my _ass_.

"Doc?"

Stop it! Stop panicking! There's plenty of air, you're not suffocating, it's just a panic attack! Answer the man!

Wheeze. "Win..." Wheeze. "Ter."

Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze.

Is it possible for my lungs to explode and/or turn to jelly?

Oh great, now I'm having Flash Comic Book flashbacks.

Stupid Murmer and his stupid villainous virus that turns lungs into Jell-o.

Appropriately named 'The Frenzy' if I remember correctly...

_Damn_ am I light headed and---

What? WHY DID THE LIGHTS JUST FLICKER?

Oh God, we're going to die, we're going to die, we're going to--

I heard something snap. What just snapped? Why did it snap? THINGS AREN'T ALLOWED TO GO SNAP!

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Things aren't allowed to THUD either!

Thud, thunk, creak, crack, snap...

And now the elevator's falling.

Oh bloody well sods law. _Fuck_!


	13. Chapter 13

Ow. My head.

It's dark.

Why is it dark?

Why is the floor squishy?

Oh lord, am I dead? I think I'm dead. I can't be dead, I'm too brilliant to be dead!

I sound like McKay inside my head...

Oh God, I _am_ dead and this _is_ hell.

Of course, I'm pretty sure if I were dead my knee wouldn't hurt _quite_ as much as it does right now...um...right?

"Ungh."

That...that wasn't me.

"Gungh."

That _definitely_ wasn't me.

What just _happened_? Ow. Smeg. Frell. Frak. I think I broke something on the--

Elevator. That's it. I was in an elevator with General O'Neill and--

Oh dear God, I'm on top of General O'Neill. That's why the floor is all squashy.

I didn't think Brigadere Generals were allowed to _get_ squashy.

OW.

Okay, that's a broken glasses lens.

On the plus side, I only sliced open my hand and not my face.

Guess I'm just lucky that way.

Oh, what I'd give for a flashlight right now.

"OW!"

Oops. What did I just lean on?

"Sorry General"

"S'alright."

You know, I didn't think that O'Neill had a voice in the sucked-the-helium-out-of-a-balloon range.

What body part could I have landed on that caused him to become a falsetto?

Oh..

OH.

Alright, the fall didn't kill me but I'm pretty sure I'm going to die from shame.


	14. Chapter 14

Okay. So I'm bedridden and mortified.

Only the bedridden part differs at all from my ordinary day to day routine.

Managed to break my knee in the fall of the damn defective elevator. Shattered it. Had to have a piece of it removed, actually...

There go my dreams of being a figure skater.

On the plus side, the infirmary is a nice quiet place to work in. I've got my laptop and nobody's bothering me...

Though I seem to have gained a reputation here in addition to the one I had back on Atlantis...

This one involves the fact I damn near turned General O'Neill into a eunuch.

You know, if it weren't for that, and the whole 'CONSTANT AGONY!' thing, I'd say my stay at Area Fifty One has been a smash success.

Yes, I've decided to completely blot the whole 'drunk as a skunk' thing out of my memory. Allow me my little delusions of sanity, if you please.

But yes...I'm making progress on the ZPM regeneration project and I'm slated to send my latest batch of findings back to McKay tomorrow.

I hope he can read gibberish...because I'm pretty sure, what with the vicodin pumping through my veins, that's the language I'm writing in.

But don't quote me on that one. It could be Klingon for all I know.

I think vicodin makes me brilliant...things seems so much more...

So much more...

So much more...um...

I know I had a point...what the hell was it? I think it was important, too...

Screw it, I'll remember it later.

Oh _hey_, my left hand is positively _fascinating_. How did I not realize this before? Dude! My fingers..when they move separately...they look so _cool_.

God, I'm totally stoned, aren't I?

Oh...great...I'm seeing shimmery lights. Either I'm going insane and having hallucinations or someone's got a transpor--


	15. Chapter 15

To say that I've seen better days is probably one of the more gross understatements I've heard in my long career of understatement hearing. Long day? That doesn't even _start_ to cover it.

I've been kidnapped by space slugs. Space slugs who're smarter than they look, since they've got ahold of an Asgard ship with beaming technology.

This is not one of the more illustrious events of my professional existence.

Oh, it's one of the more memorable ones, sure, but I'm not going to get any medals for whatever happens now. Figure I'll be lucky if I _live_ long enough to even be _considered_ for any kind of accolades. Space slugs aren't the forgiving type.

Did I mention I'm covered in mucus and stuck to a wall?

No?

Maybe I should have brought that up. You know, just so you could grasp the gravity of the situation.

They've got me stuck to a wall in a _very_ cold room and the guard...if that's what he is...is looking at me in a way that makes my skin want to wander away.

I think I'm meant to be a lunchable.

Of course that's _probably_ just paranoia. Why would they kidnap me just to eat me? There are juicier people on Earth than _me_, I'm sure...

So I'm obviously either a hostage, or meant to be used for whatever scientific knowlege I hold that they need.

They'll use me for whatever it is they want and _then_ they'll eat me.

I hate my life.

If I survive this, I'm _so_ quitting my job. They don't pay me enough for this.


	16. Chapter 16

Okay, let's try this again.

Move left leg. Wiggle right arm. Struggle.

No dice.

Move _right_ leg, wiggle _left_ arm. Struggle.

Ow. I think I sprained something.

God, I'm going to be lunch for a space slug, I just know it.

What a way to go! No blaze of glory, no heroism, no here's-the-medal-your-daughter-deserved-Mrs.-Winter, just eaten by a space slug.

Oh God, I just thought of Jabba the Hut. Ew.

Boy, I hope they don't like to play with their food...if I have to be eaten by space slugs, there better not be a metal bikini or slug-sex involved.

I wonder how they--

No. No I don't. I do not wonder how they procreate. My mind did not just go there.

. 

What--

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The cavalry's here! Thank you God!

Yes! The--

"You okay, doc?"

What the hell? I must be seeing things...

"Colonel _Sheppard_?"

What's he doing back _here_?


	17. Chapter 17

I feel like I've been hit in the stomach by Mohammed Ali and it's got nothing to do with the fact that I managed to get just a _little_ bit more battered during the daring escape from the space slug's ship...

I'm on the Daedelus, in sick bay, being poked and prodded by some doctor whose name I didn't bother to take notice of. The slugs healed my busted knee up rather nicely without my knowlege, so all my injuries are pretty superficial.

Colonel Sheppard is leaning against the bed across from me and he's the one who's _really_ hurt me.

Just with words.

The bruises and cuts and scrapes don't matter. The news he's given me _does_.

The Ancients returned to take Atlantis back.

The city I called home...the place I was kinda-sorta looking forward to returning to...

It's been reclaimed by its rightful owners.

I'll never see it again.

In fact, this might be the last time I'll ever see Colonel Sheppard.

I'm torn between wanting to hug him and wanting to punch him. Hug him because...well, he's saved my life more than once...and I might never see him again after today, and punch him because he's crushed all my hopes (Hopes? Maybe they were hopes, I don't know) of returning to Atlantis.

It's impossible to describe the way I feel about the whole thing right now. It's like...like a blanket of cold has settled over my shoulders and I can't shake myself out from under it.

Sheppard says everyone else has already returned to Earth

It was all very sudden, he says...and it happened while I was on the space slug's ship.

Apparently, I was unconscious there for a couple of days and didn't know it.

And by a couple of days, I mean a week…

Just a few days of me being out of it and the whole world crashes down when I'm not looking.

Everyone's on Earth and everyone's being reassigned to different parts of the world...Crysta, Alex, Zelenka...

McKay.

God, I'm never going to see Rodney McKay again.

I'm never going to feel so angry at him I want to throttle him…never have to argue with him or throw insults at him like finely sharpened darts at a dartboard…

I should be happy about that, shouldn't I?

Why aren't I?

He's been the thorn in my side ever since I arrived on Atlantis and now he's finally going to be out of my hair for good…why aren't I leaping for joy at the prospect?

Why do I get the sneaking suspicion that I'm going to…_miss_ him?

My God, what's _wrong_ with me? I shouldn't feel depressed about the fact I'm never going to fight with him again…

But I am.

Why? Damn it, WHY? It doesn't make any sense! I hate his guts! I can't stand him!

Right?

"Doc? Still with me?"

I hate it when people yank me out of a nice stupor. "Huh?"

Sheppard looks worried. I don't blame him, I'm having an argument with myself in my head. That's never healthy.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm…I'm fine."

I'm _such_ a liar.


	18. Chapter 18

Well, here I am...back on Earth, back in New Mexico and in a _very_ foul mood.

It's been a long day.

A looooooong day.

In fact, I don't think I can even _imagine_ a day being longer than this one.

And I have no desire beyond wanting to go get myself absolutely stinking drunk.

Hence why I'm on my way towards the Puzzle House, which is the bar closest to Area Fifty One where I can get blasted without running into any of my colleagues.

Now I want it to be understood that I don't just go get drunk whenever the hell I feel depressed--

Not that I'm depressed.

I'm not. Really I'm not.

It's just been a really trying day. After being returned to Earth and having to get poked and prodded by _more_ doctors _and_ a debriefing or two, the oblivion that a nice martini or twelve could bring would be welcome.

Besides, I don't want to think about Atlantis...or the fact I'm never going back there...or the fact I'm never going to see any of my friends (or enemies) that I met there again...

Of course, as I push my way through the throng of people inside the bar, I'm suddenly reminded that whatever deity is in control of irony has a serious crush on me...

Because, dude...the guy at the bar with his face half in a bowl of pretzels?

What the...

No. Freaking. Way.

God, _please_ let me be wrong. If you've never done anything for me before and you never do anything for me ever again, just do me this _one_ favor and let me be wrong.

"Rodney?"

The pretzel bowl stirs and bleary blue eyes try to focus on me.

A very drunk Rodney McKay is staring at me.

Joy. This week just gets better and better.


	19. Chapter 19

Wonderful. I'm face to face with a drunk off his ass astrophysicist whom I can't leave all on his own when he's in this condition.

Damned conscience, how I hate it.

"Rodney?"

Snap fingers in front of his face a few times to see _just_ how far gone he is.

"Hi!"

Okay, he sounds _happy to see me_…

Either he's really smashed or his mind has _finally_ cracked.

"What're you doin' here?"

Oy. Can't believe I'm going to do this…

"I'm going to take you home, that's what I'm going to do."

Flag down the bartender. "Call a cab, would you?"

"Already did, lady." The bartender holds out his hand. "His tab's seventeen dollars even."

Glare at the oblivious bane of my existence while I dig out my wallet and pay for drinks that I didn't partake in.

"You owe me, Rodney." Tug on his arm and settle myself underneath it so I'm playing the part of a very convincing crutch.

"Have you seen Carson?" He shouts in my ear, clearly unaware of the fact his volume control is a _little_ bit off. "He came back with me, you know…but I don't think he stuck around…"

Can't say that I blame him…

"Work with me here, McKay."

How the _hell_ did he get so heavy? Or have I just gotten all soft from sitting around doing nothing but calculations for the past few weeks?

"Where're we goin'?"

"Fifteen feet to our awaiting bright yellow chariot, provided I can actually manage to lug your drunken ass that far."

I'm starting to think I _can't._

I should have called somebody else to come get him...he said Beckett came back with him.

But I don't have a clue where Beckett is...

I _could_ call somebody at the SGC or at Area Fifty One, but...

Well, they'd never let Rodney live this down.

Not that I care about his reputation...I just want to be the only person who can blackmail him with this particular gaff.

The fifteen feet out the door and into the parking lot are the longest fifteen feet I've walked in a while, what with an extra hundred and eighty pounds or so leaning on me, and thankfully there _is_ a cab waiting.

"Okay, Rodney, get into the nice cab."

The man is like a limp noodle. Good God, this is what he's like after a little binge?

**THUNK.**

Oh goodie, he bumped his head and is looking more than a bit unfocused. I can't send him off on his own _now_. God knows where he'll end up in this condition.

If I let the former head of the Atlantis science department get into a cab and he winds up in the middle of nowhere or he suddenly decides to take a walk into traffic, there'll be hell to pay.

There'll be an open position for Head Of Science Staff too, but I'm not prepared to get a promotion _that_ way.

Stupid morals.

Someone, somewhere is having a great big laugh at my expense. I can practically _hear_ them as I resign myself to pushing McKay inside the cab and parking myself next to him.

"Shove over, McKay. It looks you're getting a chaperone."

Buckle seat belt. Buckle _his_ seat belt.

A little voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like my mother parrots at me 'Safety First, Lydia'.

"Where to lady?"

And the fact that the cabbie reminds me of Reverend Jim Ignatowski? Oh not worrying in the least.

"Just a second."

Okay. I have no idea where Rodney lives...

"Rodney?"

He's drooling on my shoulder and muttering something unintelligible.

Oh yeah, _that's_ helpful.

"Rodney, c'mon now."

More muttering. Great.

Well, the man has to have an ID on him _somewhere_, right?

Let's not think about the fact I'm digging around in his pockets and am probably giving the cabbie the impression that I'm getting frisky with my drunken boyfriend.

Breath mints, power bar wrapper, keys...another power bar wrapper--

I swear that's all the man eats...

Ah ha! Wallet!

"Uh, 1412...Fifty third and um..."

I can barely _see_ in the dark, damn it.

"Fifty third and...third."

...Not fair. I want to live on a street that shares it's name with a Ramones song...

"Sure thing, lady."

And we're off at mach three.

Did I mention I tend to have panic attacks in cars that are going eighty miles an hour and weaving all over the road?

Not that I have time to think about the buildings whizzing past since-

Oomph!

Apparently, Rodney's feeling affectionate. I suddenly find myself uncomfortably yanked forward with my face smushed to his chest, the seatbelt digging into my middle and my back bent at a funny angle.

Not ha-ha funny, but 'I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be able to make my spine go that way' funny.

"McKay...mmph-"

He's decided to cuddle my skull like I'm a teddy bear. And his stretchy metal watch band is caught in my hair and _ow._

And he's...petting me?

Okay, this encounter just jumped six points on the weirdness scale.

Which is pretty bad because it was already approaching the red zone to begin with.

And I'm starting to feel a little bit smothered.

_Literally_.

Air would be nice right about now.

"Mphay!"

How the _hell_ did he get so strong? I'm starting to think my only option is to bite him to get him to release me.

But I'm not quite prepared for _that_ eventuality.

"Pretty-" he slurs and combs his fingers through my hair, yanking out several strands of it clumsily.

_Owie, owie, owie._

"So pretty."

I'm momentarily both mortified and flattered before he tacks on--

"Morgan."

The second I'm not suffering from oxygen deprivation, I'm gonna slap him. The jerk. I don't care if he's drunk. You do **not** compliment me while you confuse me with your ex-girlfriend (or whatever this 'Morgan' woman was).

It's not jealousy. It's just something that you don't _do_. Every idiot knows _that_.

First getting stuck in elevators with brigadier generals, then getting kidnapped by space slugs, now being petted by my mortal enemy…

Somebody up there hates me.


	20. Chapter 20

Hunngh.

Oh my _head_.

No wait.

Not my head.

My chest.

Owie. What the hell? I clearly remember going to a bar last night, I ought to have a hangover, not a pain in my chest like half a dozen needles sinking into it.

Open eyes.

There's a cat perched on me staring _right_ at me.

I don't have a cat. I like them well enough, but I don't _have_ one.

Again we're back to the 'What the hell?' thing.

Apparently my brain doesn't function on all eight cylinders this early in the morning.

Wait...morning? An-

Ow, my back.

What the-

I'm on a couch.

Not my couch.

I don't even _have_ a couch.

And now comes panic.

Where the hell _am_ I?

Okay, first things first, let's get this cat's claws extracted from my shirt-

Which, thank God I'm waking up in a strange place still in my clothes. I might freak out _more_ otherwise.

"Good morning-" I crane my head to try and read the tag that's dangling from the tabby's collar and finally manage to make out the blurry lettering, "Morgan?"

Why does that ring a bell?

God I need caffeine.

'Morgan' is still staring at me intently, probably wondering who the hell I am and what I'm doing in his territory. The little tip of his head tells me that's _exactly_ what he's thinking and the flexing of his paws warns me that he's not above protecting his couch to the death.

"Listen, I'd love to get out of here--" _Once I figure out where 'here' is_, "But I can't exactly do that with you on top of me digging your charming little claws into my flesh...so if you'd be so kind?"

He's considering.

"Please?"

The cat tips his head at me before he saunters down my chest to take up residence in my lap.

Okay, so he's willing to let me sit up, but he's not going to relinquish his 'I'm in control here' vibes _just_ yet. He's still stating his authority loud and clear by parking his weight on my thighs and keeping me in my seat, but he's trusting me enough to stop looking at me like he's going to go all 'when housecats attack' at any moment.

See, this is why I get along so beautifully with cats. I _get_ them.

It's a nice relationship, really.

YOW.

Alright, no more sleeping upright. I'm getting too old (let's not think about the fact that the big three-oh is rapidly approaching) to sleep upright.

I found Rodney in a bar last night. Right. I remember. I poured him into a cab and saw him home--dragged him home, more like--got him up to his apartment and then called a cab of my own and sat down to wait.

I must've fallen asleep on his couch waiting.

And damn I've got to get out of here. If it's ever found out that I spent the night in Rodney McKay's apartment, I'll _never_ live it down.

Wait. Morgan. Now I remember.

The bastard confused me with his _cat_?

And the insults just keep coming, don't they? Yeesh.

No. Focus. Focus Lydia. Escape from Rodney McKay's apartment in my foremost concern. Preferably before he regains consciousness…

I seem to remember stuffing him in his bed before I sat down to wait for my cab, but lord only knows when he's going to come around…

"Hey, cat?"

A rather irritable meow.

"Sorry. _Morgan_. I…I know you're kinda attached to my thighs and everything, but I've gotta get out of here before your companion wakes up and finds me…he'll use trespassing as an excuse to kill me, I'm sure." A none-too-gentle shove at the fluff ball on my legs that sends him into the floor. "Sorry. _Really_."

Okay. Cat is no longer a problem. Exit.

Ha! There it is. Woo!

Yank door open.

Carson Beckett is standing there with his fist suspended in midair as though he were about to knock.

"Good morning."

"Uh…hi."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I've been caught in the act of trying to leave Rodney's apartment really early in the morning…

"It's not what it looks like. I…and Rodney? I found him in a bar last night? Brought him home and…I…honestly, it's **not** what it looks like! He probably won't even remember what happened last night…not that anything happened, because it didn't!"

"I believe you."

That's a first.

"You'd best get on before he comes around…" He winks at me. "I won't tell if you won't."

"You…you're not going to tell him I was in his apartment?"

"It'll be our little secret, hm?" He leans in conspiratorially. "But you'll have to tell me everything later, lass. Never pass up on good dirt on Rodney McKay…helps keep him in his place when he gets a big head, doesn't it?"

Return Carson's grin ruthlessly.

I _knew_ there was a reason why I liked Doctor Beckett.


	21. Chapter 21

Okay...so I've had the weekend to recover from my mortification and pushing all thought of recent events out of my head.

What happens when I come back to work on Monday? Why, the very center of my troubles is sitting here waiting for me.

In. My. Lab.

Correction. Taking _over_ my lab.

We're back to the "I'm going to KILL Rodney McKay" thing all over again.

He looked just as shocked to see me as I was to see him, so I take it he doesn't remember our last little encounter on Friday night, which saved both of us a lot embarrassment.

However, that also takes away any of my plans for blackmailing him with my knowledge of his little excursions into the land of alcohol.

So now I'm back to biting the inside of my cheek and grinding my teeth to keep from snapping at him for every slight and dig he's getting in at my expense.

Apparently, since he's been kicked off Atlantis, that's made him feel the need to reassert his authority. I think it's his way of feeling less powerless, considering how useless he must feel--having his pet project yanked out from under him--so I'm giving him a little more leeway than I _normally_ would.

Either I'm being uncharacteristically understanding and compassionate, or I'm going soft. I hate Rodney McKay. I'm not allowed to feel the need to be _nice_ to him…and yet, that's what I'm _doing_.

I even got him a cup of _coffee_ this morning…

Okay, so I left it on his desk anonymously, but my point still stands. I did something that I never, under ordinary circumstances, would do.

God, I bought Rodney McKay coffee. I feel so dirty. Ugh.

Of course, maybe if he knew it was me that performed that small act of kindness for him, he wouldn't be making a conscious effort to try and drive me up the wall.

I wish I could say I haven't missed our little verbal sparring matches, but he's the first intelligent conversation I've had since I got on the Daedelus.

Even if he's totally, totally wrong in every single one of his theories.

"Rodney, I'm starting to wonder if you're suffering from some kind of disease that's eaten the parts of your brain that _used_ to house useful information."

"I _know_ you think you're in charge--I know you're used to it after, what, a week of it? But I'm here now, and I am giving the orders."

"_Rodney_…"

Apparently, the warning bite to my voice is blindingly obvious because two techs have just decided to make themselves scarce.

"I don't take orders from _anyone_. Not military, not private citizens, and certainly not from **you**."

"Do you want to keep your job, Winter?"

"Are you _threatening_ me, McKay? _Bad form_."

"I don't make _threats_, Winter, I make _promises_."

"I swear to God, Rodney! You haven't even been here an hour and you're already driving me insane!"

He smirks. "It was an awfully short trip."


	22. Chapter 22

**Taken From The Diary Of Lydia Winter**

**July 30****th**

Rodney really _is_ trying to drive me crazy. However, it's totally worth it to see him drive Kavanagh so precariously close to the edge as well. I'm _used_ to putting up with the _worst_ of Rodney's antics…Kavanagh on the other hand…

**July 31****st**

The Asgard contacted Earth today. In that "Hey, we're going to take General O'Neill without any warning" sort of way. Apparently, those space slugs (The Haddak is what they're called, technically) are more of a threat than we thought. They aren't all that smart or skilled, but they're a shape shifting scavenger race, and they've managed to amass a lot of the nastier weapons from the nastiest aliens throughout the galaxy. They're far from being formidable, but somehow they've got an Asgard ship. _Again_.

**August 3****rd**

One of our satellites has been blasted out of orbit. It's the Haddak.

Looks like Earth has a new enemy.

**August 4****th**

The ZPM regeneration project has been pushed aside in favor of studying what little information we have about the hybrid technologies that the Haddak have. The higher ups are trying for a diplomatic solution first (utterly typical), but it doesn't seem our tuber shaped friends are in any mood for it.

**August 8****th**

I will not listen to Monty Python while working. I will not listen to Monty Python while working. I will not listen to Monty Python while working.

I especially will not listen to--and subsequently sing along with-- 'Sit On My Face'.

I am never going to be able to look Rodney in the eye again as long as I live.

God, I wish I were dead.

**August 9****th**

Good news. I almost got my wish this morning.

Note to self: if the military types say 'don't touch' it _means_ DON'T TOUCH.

I wonder how long it'll take my eyebrows to grow back in?

**August 16****th**

The Haddak made another strike against Earth this morning. The guys in charge are trying to explain it all away, but it's kinda hard when you consider that they blew up _another_ satellite. Two in one month is more than a little difficult to get the public to ignore. The story they're trying to sell right now is that there was a defective microchip in both satellites, which caused them to overheat and 'burn out'.

**August 19****th**

McKay is working around the clock on the Haddak issue, and I've been assisting him as best I can. The ZPM regeneration project is completely secondary to what we're dealing with right now, and all our differences have fallen to the wayside in favor of focusing on the minor crisis threatening Earth.

**August 21****st**

Well, that was the shortest battle for our continued existence in the history of ever. The Haddak folded under the attentions of the Daedelus and a small fleet of Asgard ships somewhere out beyond the moon, and I doubt--as viciously as we crippled them--they'll be back causing trouble anytime soon.

**August 25****th**

I have a nasty bump on my head as a result of my latest lab accident.

Yeah, I have a bump on my forehead. I also have an Avengers Band-Aid on my forehead. Captain America is guarding the gash in my head.

I'm almost positive that wasn't in his job description.

"Saving the world from Nazis, check. Saving the world from communism, check. Saving Lydia Winter from a wound infection...hey, wait a minute, I didn't sign on for this!"

I'm fine, I'm not gonna die; it's just a two inch slice of flesh out of my face. No big deal.

Just a tip though; if you're happily cleaning your lab, singing along with Cinderella at the top of your lungs and skipping around?

Watch out for that cabinet door. He's got an agenda.

**August 27****th**

It might be my imagination, but I think something is up with Rodney. He's been civil to me all day.

It's creeping me out. A _lot_.

**September 2****nd**

Got an interesting piece of mail today. Apparently, while I was on Atlantis, I missed the marriage of my best friend. He sent me an invitation, but I never got it…even if I had gotten it, I couldn't have come, but that's beside the point.

I just got a "We're having a baby!" announcement from him. His wife's pregnant and I'm invited to the baby shower…

In Oregon.

For some reason, I feel…left out. I don't know _why_, but I do. It's like everyone else's lives have gone on ahead without me. I mean, he's three years younger than I am and he's already married with a baby on the way.

Another reminder that I'm not getting any younger, I suppose.

Or maybe it's the fact that things on Earth have changed so much since I was here last. I mean…I was glad to be home at first, but with each passing day, I get little reminders that I don't fit in anywhere here anymore.

I guess it's true what they say…you can't go home again.

Of course, I can't go back to Atlantis, either.

But…Atlantis isn't home, right? It was a nice place to be, but it's not Earth. Sure, I found more friends there than I've got here, but that doesn't make it _home_. This is home. This is the planet of my origin. This is where I belong. Right. I'm just not in the proper swing of things yet. I'll find my place again, my inner compass is just a little out of whack is all.

Gah. I can't think about this anymore. I'm going back to work.

**September 6****th**

ZPM regeneration project is going along swimmingly. At this rate, we'll have a viable way of regenerating a ZPM to full power within the next eighteen months.

God that seems like an awfully long time to keep working with McKay.

**September 12****th**

Okay, there's definitely something wrong with Rodney. I don't know what it is, or what he's planning, but there's something going on under that receding hairline that he's not supposed to be thinking about. I heard him say he's going to Colorado in a few days for a little 'reunion' with Sheppard, Beckett and Weir, but something tells me there's…more to it than that.

I don't know what dastardly plan he's got in development, but I intend to find out.


	23. Chapter 23

The lab is dark. That in itself is...odd. It's not even ten o'clock yet; usually, McKay is working in his part of the lab later than I am, but tonight, there's something different in the air. Whatever he's been working on, I think tonight's the night he puts his plan into action. The fact he's shifting his eyes about from side to side suspiciously is further proof to support my theory, as is the fact he's got armfuls of Ancient tech.

"Whatcha workin' on, McKay?"

I love how shocked he looks when I pop out of nowhere like that.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Winter?!" He screeches, fighting to keep a handle on all the stuff he has in his arms.

"Possibly."

"Well it didn't work this time!"

Shark like grin. "I'll have to try harder."

"What do you _want_?"

Boy, he's impatient tonight. Fine, cut to the chase then.

"For starters, I want to know where you're going and why you're taking half a dozen of _my_ projects with you."

That got his hackles up. He's glaring at me like he's never glared before. "It's top secret. Can't tell you. Now, if you'd be so kind as to get out of the way--"

Make a point of leaning against the doorframe, trapping him. "We have the same level security clearance and you know it, McKay. Now, tell me where you're going and _why_ or else I start screaming bloody murder."

"No."

"Okay, fine, but you were warned. I've got a set of lungs on me, McKay." Open mouth and take huge gulp of air, intent on yowling like a cat being skinned alive.

"NO!" His hand clamps itself down over my mouth as he drops one of the notebooks he was making off with. "Don't make a sound! I...I can't tell you where I'm going or why! I can't tell _anyone_!"

Glare.

"I'm going to take my hand off now..."

GLARE.

"Are you going to scream?"

Glare once more, but shake my head as best I can with his hands keeping it immobile.

He lets go and for a split second, I think about reneging on the deal and screaming my head off...

But, if I do that, I'll never needle any information out of him.

"McKay, if you want me to stay silent, you've _got_ to tell me where you're going!"

"I _can't_."

Cross arms over chest. "Does this have anything to do with retaking Atlantis?"

His eyes get so _huge_ when he's been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. "No."

"Don't lie to me, McKay...I've heard rumors that things aren't all sunshine and lollipops back in Pegasus...something's gone wrong for the Ancients, hasn't it?"

He's uncharacteristically silent. It's more than a little unnerving.

"McKay...you met up with Weir, Sheppard and Beckett a few nights ago...are you planning on going back--"

His hand is clamped over my jaw again and it's taking every ounce of self control I have to keep from biting him. "Yes! Alright? Yes, we've got to go back. There's...trouble. I only came back here to get some equipment. You can't tell anyone! Please."

Consider.

Dammit, why does he have to look so heroic and desperate?

"Fine. You've got my silence, I swear."

What a look of relief!

"But! You're going to need a lot more than _that_." Grab him by the sleeve and drag him back into the lab, door slamming shut behind us. "There's a piece of tech we nicked from the Haddak--well, that _I_ nicked from the Haddak when I was on their ship."

Start shifting papers this way and that on my desk until I come upon the little square device I'm looking for. Hand it to him. "Here."

"Is this what I think it is?" He asks, looking a little green around the gills.

"Alien hand grenade," I reply easily. "Yank on that little blue dealie there, throw it, boom."

"I know how a hand grenade works, Winter," he snaps. "But...thank you."

Shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. "Just don't like...die or anything, okay?"

"You're worried?" He looks bemused. "That's kinda...sweet. Tha--"

"I meant don't let anyone _else_ kill you. I've got exclusive rights on your life and the termination thereof, pal." Poke him in the chest twice. "And don't you forget it."

He catches my hand and clasps it in a handshake. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Be careful and like...yeah." Pull back, feeling _very_ awkward. "I'll cover for you as long as I can."

"Thanks, Winter...Lydia."

Somehow, this time around, being on a first name basis doesn't feel quite so strange.

"Good luck..._Rodney._"


	24. Chapter 24

Pace, pace, pace. Pace, pace, pace.

Pause to chew on my thumbnail.

They know Rodney's gone. They know that Sheppard, Weir and Beckett are gone _too_.

And they pulled _me_ in for questioning.

Luckily, I've got plausible deniability. I mean...I know they went back to Atlantis, but I don't know too many specifics. That didn't keep the military types from trying to wring every single ounce of information out of me, but I handled it pretty well.

They've been gone from Earth for three days without word back and I'm getting...

Well, more anxious than I already _was_.

Pace, pace, pace. Pace, pace, pace.

Pause to chew on--...huh, I seem to have chewed that one down to a nub. Actually, I've chewed all of my nails down to the quick.

This does not bode well. I'll start gnawing on my hand pretty soon if we don't get _some_ kind of news from Atlantis.

I shouldn't have let him go.

I should have screamed at the top of my lungs and kept him from doing this...this...absolutely idiotic thing!

What if he's dead?

Stop pacing.

Why should I care?

Oh don't be stupid, Lydia...we're not friends, but we're far from being the bitter enemies we once were. I'm allowed to be a _little_ bit worried about him.

If he got himself killed, I'll never forgive him. I'll curse at his grave until the cows come home if he went and died on me!

Resume pacing.

And what about Beckett? And Sheppard? I liked them too...

Weir I could do without, but I don't want the woman _dead_.

Zelenka popped by Area Fifty One yesterday...some kind of planned visit thing...but I didn't get the chance to talk to him.

He looked about the way I feel though. Frazzled, anxious and _worried_.

Flop down on my chair.

Okay...I don't pray often. I really don't. It's not that I don't believe in God, I just...don't believe in organized religion so much. But somehow, I think my nerves might quiet a little if I do...so...um...

If you're there, God, and you're not too busy...um...you wanna do me a favor? Keep them safe. You know which 'them' I mean. Or at least don't let them get hurt _too_ badly. Just all of them back in one piece would be nice. I don't care if Atlantis falls or not, just make sure they don't get blasted to kingdom come if the place goes up, okay? Amen.

Gah. I can't take this. I need news! I need to know what--

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

I think my heart just stopped and sank all the way down to my sneakers.

"Who is it?"

I hate how meek and terrified my voice sounds. HATE IT.

There's several moments of excited gibberish which my ears register as being Czech before my visitor remembers the person he's trying to communicate with speaks only English fluently. "It is Radek! I have news!"

Dart across the room and fling the door open. Heart is thumping at breakneck speed inside my chest.

"Are they okay?"

He's positively _beaming_. "Better than okay!"

I fling my arms around Radek's neck. I have no idea what's just come over me, but it's an impulse I can't control, so I just give into it. Maybe it's relief? It certainly feels like unbelievably strong relief. I can't stop laughing with the strength of it and my eyes are threatening to spill over. There's a part of me that doesn't like the way that feels in the least, but the majority of me is too thrilled to care. "That's wonderful, Radek!"

He laughs a laugh of pure, unadulterated _joy--_clearly I'm not the only one who'd been on the verge of frantic, worried hysteria over the disappearance of our fellow expedition members--and squeezes me briefly before releasing me. "Atlantis is back under Earth's control!"

My heart has stopped again, but for an entirely different reason. "Does that mean…?"

"We are to return to Atlantis next week!"

"The entire expedition?"

"All of us!"

Another hug and a squeal of happiness erupts from my throat. I should feel like a complete idiot, but for some reason, I can't bring myself to give a damn about how stupidly embarrassed I would be under ordinary circumstances.

I'm going home.

-

A/N: Well, that's it folks. No more Lydia Winter. Nuh uh. Not from me, never ever again. She's been a fun character to write, but I've done enough with her to last me a lifetime. The Retribution! Saga (every story I've written featuring her) is currently being turned into a book (just like When Plot Bunnies Attack), and it's already big enough to scare me.

However, I hereby give her to you, the readers, to do with as you please. Pick up where I left off, write her into anything you want. As long as you give me credit in an author's note, she's yours for the taking. Goodnight, my beloved audience. It's been a blast, but I've gotta run. Be sure to check out my other stories if you liked this one. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweeeeeet sorrow.


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